My first few weeks in Greece were largely a disappointment. I had trouble writing in the midst of disappointment. If I wrote honestly about the bad, I felt whiny, and if I wrote only about the good, I felt disingenuous. So, except for notes in my journal, I pretty much chucked the writing and went on having experiences.
Not long after I returned to the US, an acquaintance asked me of my trip, "Did you have fun?"
If it was fun I was after, I would not have traveled to Greece during the coldest, rainiest season to work in fields, mop floors, and clean kitchens in remote villages where there are more goats than men. For fun, I would have traveled during the sun-filled spring or summer and stayed at an island resort, drinking and dancing and having a wild, passionate fling with a sexy hunk named Yianni fifteen years my junior so that I could then write every sordid detail and call it Eat, Pray, Opa! Next trip, perhaps.
I was asked a simple question; after a moment's hesitation, I offered a simple answer. "Well, yes. Yes, I had a wonderful time."
I did have a wonderful time, but "fun" is not a word that comes to mind when describing my trip. My cousin and my uncle disowned me, my plan to learn about healing with herbs was a bust, it rained the entire month of February, I cried myself to sleep most nights, and I failed miserably at blogging.
At the same time, I learned from a spiritual healer, gave a presentation to a gathering of English speaking expats, experienced a dream within a dream in Switzerland, revisited the land of the centaurs, conversed with the Muses, drank tsipouro on the Gulf of Volos and heart-opening wine on Souda Bay, under the influence of which I renewed a long-distance romance with a handsome bloke back home whose emails and calls sweetened my lonely nights.
Fun? Not always. Wonderful? Yes. The good, the bad, and the opa, baby. Every bit of it, wonderful.
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Next up: "How I Managed to Piss Off My Relatives in Three Days," or, "The Devil Went Down to Athens, and I Don't Mean Georgia."
If I can't tell a story with both good and bad, then I can't tell a story.
* * *
Not long after I returned to the US, an acquaintance asked me of my trip, "Did you have fun?"
If it was fun I was after, I would not have traveled to Greece during the coldest, rainiest season to work in fields, mop floors, and clean kitchens in remote villages where there are more goats than men. For fun, I would have traveled during the sun-filled spring or summer and stayed at an island resort, drinking and dancing and having a wild, passionate fling with a sexy hunk named Yianni fifteen years my junior so that I could then write every sordid detail and call it Eat, Pray, Opa! Next trip, perhaps.
I was asked a simple question; after a moment's hesitation, I offered a simple answer. "Well, yes. Yes, I had a wonderful time."
I did have a wonderful time, but "fun" is not a word that comes to mind when describing my trip. My cousin and my uncle disowned me, my plan to learn about healing with herbs was a bust, it rained the entire month of February, I cried myself to sleep most nights, and I failed miserably at blogging.
At the same time, I learned from a spiritual healer, gave a presentation to a gathering of English speaking expats, experienced a dream within a dream in Switzerland, revisited the land of the centaurs, conversed with the Muses, drank tsipouro on the Gulf of Volos and heart-opening wine on Souda Bay, under the influence of which I renewed a long-distance romance with a handsome bloke back home whose emails and calls sweetened my lonely nights.
Fun? Not always. Wonderful? Yes. The good, the bad, and the opa, baby. Every bit of it, wonderful.
-------------------------------------
Next up: "How I Managed to Piss Off My Relatives in Three Days," or, "The Devil Went Down to Athens, and I Don't Mean Georgia."
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